And what about the branch?
Ice crusted now
sans any shade of leaf,
the song bird gone,
the feathered nest deserted.

The branch that wore the bud
of Spring:  It bore
the fruit of season’s bloom
and now it waxes barren.

But look, a million rainbows
dance in random step.
It holds them loosely
in the crystal flakes

that gaily claim their space
on its outstretched hands.
As the seasons pass
it may wear varied robes;

some fade, some fly away,
but the branch remains
essentially unchanged
no matter the weather
or fickle fashion’s trend.

 

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